


Good For You

by choking_on_roses



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Established Relationship, Jealousy, Kinky sex, Lingerie, M/M, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, pastel aesthetic because of reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4530579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choking_on_roses/pseuds/choking_on_roses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's not a stripper," Makoto protests weakly, knowing it won't do any good. "He's a dancer."</p><p>"A <i>pole</i> dancer."</p><p>"Which is different from a stripper!"</p><p>"But he <i>does</i> strip."</p><p>(or: Makoto's not too sure how he feels about his boyfriend's new job.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good For You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LinusPearl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinusPearl/gifts), [Emawee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emawee/gifts).



> This is entirely LinusPearl's fault. I refuse to take the blame for this. (The song playing while Kisumi strips is Good For You by Selena Gomez, hence the fic's title.)
> 
> Also, special thanks to Emawee for helping me choose Kisumi's outfit! Couldn't have done it without you, thank you so much <3
> 
> Note: It's not necessary to have read [Shocked and Affronted](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2514071/chapters/5584445) for this piece to make sense, but please read if you're interested in how Nagisa's evening played out.

Makoto exhales nervously, craning his head to glance at the door. Still no sign of him. He swivels back on his bar stool, stirring the ice in what's left of his Manhattan and raising his hand to get the bartender's attention. After ordering another drink (this will be his third, and the bourbon's good; he's starting to feel it) he checks the door again, then his watch.

Just as he's considering pulling out his cell-phone, he spots Nagisa enter, waving enthusiastically as he winds his way through the tables cluttering the lounge. "Sorry I'm late," he chirps, hopping onto the stool next to Makoto's. "I missed the train and had to wait for a new one, and my phone's pretty much dead or I would've texted."

"It's fine," Makoto replies, taking the first sip of the fresh drink the bartender set before him. "I'm glad you're here. I was worried something might've happened."

"No no, nothing happened. Rei-chan's just being kind of, you know, _Rei-chan_ about this dinner meeting he has for work tonight. It's not far from here, I might drop in after and see if he'll drive me home," Nagisa says, shrugging out of his sweater. Makoto catches something off in his tone- normally he'd worry more, but today he's got his own problems. "So it's all good," Nagisa continues, smiling up at Makoto. "What'd you wanna talk about?"

Makoto takes another big sip of his drink. Liquid courage, as they say. "Kisumi..." he clears his throat, ears burning as Nagisa leans forward with interest. "He, um, wants me to go see his show tonight. I don't know what to do."

"Really? He wants you to go like...watch? The whole thing?"

Makoto nods, and Nagisa actually looks taken aback, blinking rapidly, mouth falling open in surprise. He snaps out of it in a second, that way-too-innocent and far-too-familiar grin spreading over his face.

"...I really, _really_ don't want to, Nagisa." He can't help it if the words sound a touch whiny.

Nagisa taps his chin thoughtfully, but Makoto can't tell if he's mulling over the dilemma or concentrating on the menu hanging on the wall over Makoto's shoulder. "I wonder why he wants you to go all of a sudden. Did something happen?"

"I can't think of anything..."

Nagisa purses his lips, thinking hard. "It doesn't make sense that he'd force you all of a sudden if you don't want to g-" He cuts off, head snapping in Makoto's direction. "You never actually said _no,_ did you?"

"I...well...not directly," Makoto shrugs guiltily. "I...I hinted at it...lightly."

"Oh my _fucking god,_ Makoto," Nagisa says, rolling his eyes.  

Makoto groans, brushing his hand over his mouth. Yes, he knows how pathetic he sounds, but it's so difficult for him to say no sometimes. At the time he'd agreed to go, he'd felt far more confident in his ability to see it through; now, as the show draws nearer, he feels all his previous conviction waning. "Just- how do I get out of this?"

Nagisa orders himself a drink before answering, amused you-brought-this-on-yourself grin on his lips. "I don't get why you _want_ to get out of it. He's amazing."

Makoto chokes on his swallow of bourbon, coughing as it burns the back of his throat. "Y-You've-"

Nagisa waves his hands in front of his face, hurriedly backtracking. "No no no, I mean I've _heard_ he's amazing. From friends! I promise I didn't break your stupid rule."

Makoto runs a hand through his hair, then straightens his tie, trying to figure out which issue to address first. His rule isn't _stupid._ He finally settles on pretending Nagisa never said that, because he doesn't have the energy to argue about the legitimacy of his rules. They are what they are. For a reason. He fidgets with his napkin, and Nagisa chooses to fill the silence by catching up to Makoto in the drinks department, slurping down his first one like it's raspberry lemonade. Which it very well might be, considering its colour.

"I'm just saying," Nagisa says after draining the glass. "That if my boyfriend was a stripper, I would totally be in the front row every night."

"He's not a stripper," Makoto protests weakly, knowing it won't do any good. "He's a _dancer._ "

"A _pole_ dancer."

"Which is different from a stripper!"

"But he _does_ strip."

Makoto closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, calmly raising his glass to his lips. "How would you know if you've never seen him perform?"

Makoto had practically had to beg all of his friends to stay away from Kisumi's show. If he had his way, nobody would know Kisumi's profession at all, but Kisumi had gone proudly flaunting his position once he'd been hired.

Nagisa smiles so broadly his eyes squint shut, in the way that lets Makoto know Nagisa's definitely been to see Kisumi at least once. "Just enjoy the opportunity."

Makoto has to admit, he's proud of Kisumi for all the tireless hours he puts into training. From what Makoto has gleaned from watching him practice, pole dancing is incredibly difficult, on par with Olympic gymnastics. The fact that Kisumi has worked his way up to the headline weekend position truly attests to both his charisma and physical skill- yes, _of course_ Makoto's proud, but that doesn't mean he wants everyone he knows seeing his boyfriend up there in that state of undress, essentially being paid to look pretty and entertain everyone with his flamboyant flirting.

As much as he'd love to say it's because he doesn't want anyone looking down on Kisumi for his profession, as much as he wants to tell himself he's just being a protective boyfriend, he can feel the stabbing pain of jealousy knife through his chest. He doesn't want people lusting after Kisumi, sitting in the back row whistling and whispering to their friends about the things they'd like to _do_ to him.

Still. He understands, completely. It's just Kisumi's job. It's fine. Just because all of those people want a taste of Kisumi in the sack doesn't mean they get to have one. And Makoto trusts Kisumi, utterly. 

"I guess it won't be so bad, if I sit in the very back."

Nagisa slurps the rest of his drink through his straw, reaching into the glass to pick out the cherry. "It can't be anything you haven't seen before. Don't tell me he doesn't give you VIP shows."

"H-He does, but..."

"But what? Oh my god, I would love it if someone did that for me."

"But it's embarrassing!"

Nagisa stares at him like he's just said he wants to sell all his things and move to Tibet to herd goats. "For who?"

Makoto scrubs at his face as if he can physically wipe away the blush. Maybe he should cut himself off; he's really starting to feel the heat from all that bourbon. "That's another thing," Makoto sullenly admits. "I, uh. He said." He stalls, nearly too shy to continue. But he's an adult; they're both adults, Nagisa talks about his bedroom forays all the time, each new story a trophy for his collection. He swallows the lump in his throat, which he strongly suspects is his last shred of pride. "He said he's frustrated by how I'm, what's the word... _conservative._ In bed." Very _political._ And coming in last in the polls, apparently.

"You're such a prude," Nagisa giggles. "It's adorable. I'd almost think you're a virgin if I didn't know better."

Sighing, Makoto slaps down enough money to cover both their tabs, pushing his bar stool out to stand. "Some people don't feel comfortable sharing every little detail with their friends," he mutters.

"Best friends," Nagisa corrects him, patting his shoulder soothingly. "Aww, please don't leave. One more drink?" He puts on a pathetic pout, opening his eyes wide and fluttering his lashes. It's the same trick he uses when he wants the last piece of pizza, but Makoto senses something more...genuine around the eyes today. Pulls his stool a few inches closer to Nagisa's, seating himself again.

"Is there something else?" He offers Nagisa a warm smile, indicating his legitimate curiosity. "Something bothering you?"

And Nagisa's shoulders slump as he sighs, casting sad eyes into his glass as he swirls the ice cubes around with the cocktail umbrella. "A bit...I guess."

Makoto waits patiently, willing himself not to glance at his watch. He's got time; he's always got time when it comes down to it. Ninety-five percent because he cares, and five percent because this will make an appropriate excuse if he has to miss the first half of Kisumi's performance. He tilts his head, keeping his expression open, inviting.

Nagisa side-eyes him, tracing patterns in the condensation smeared on the bar counter. "It's just...Rei-chan stuff. He has a crush on this guy and he's gonna be at the dinner thing tonight and...I need another drink."

They've had this conversation countless times, enough to have refined it to its basic elements.  Nagisa doesn't want Rei...but he doesn't want anyone else to have him. Makoto sighs wearily. That's not quite true; it's more complex than that. Of course Nagisa wants Rei to be happy, but sitting back and watching Rei find that happiness with someone other than him requires a fair amount of strength. And it turns out strength comes in the form of double cocktails. Makoto knows there's not much he can do to help, but he gives Nagisa's arm a gentle squeeze to show his solidarity. "I guess we both have unpleasant evenings to look forward to. Text me later if you want to talk."

Nagisa nods, grim smile plastered on his face. "Will do. Try to have at least a little fun. He might be dancing for someone else, but at the end of the day you're the lucky guy he comes home to."

"I know." Makoto tries his best to keep his face carefully stoic, nodding. Nagisa doesn't want his "pity," as he'd call it. "I'm so lucky to have someone." _I shouldn't complain._

Nagisa adopts that sage expression he gets sometimes, when he's lost in introspection. "Makoto?"

"Yeah?"

"It sounds like Kisumi wants you to be a little more open with him in the bedroom." He touches Makoto's arm. "It's not about the sex. It's communication."

 

 

 

 

The  hostess greets Makoto warmly when he enters, though how she could possibly recognize him after seeing him only once before (and in such dark lighting) he has no idea. Then again, he remembers her perfectly, so maybe she has a knack for it. Making customers feel welcome is her job.

"It's a full house tonight," she points out unnecessarily, leading Makoto past the tables crammed full of people. Most of them are men, but there are some women here and there, sitting with their friends and whispering.

"Ah. Yes. I see that." He blanches, immediately wishing he could take the words back. So rude, and he hardly knows this woman! But she gives him a big smile as she turns to him, gesturing to an empty table clearly reserved for him. He feels awkward having the whole thing to himself when the rest of the place is so crowded that there are people standing at the back, but it would be impolite to refuse, so he sits.  

He refuses a drink, folding his hands on top of the table with a sigh. He's had enough already as it is, and the prices here are no doubt triple their legitimate retail value. The club is pretty fancy, as these places go. The audience orderly, watched over by the burly security guards scattered strategically around the room. Every table is clean, no spills or empty beer cans kicked under the chairs.

Music plays low in the background while they wait, and it's more like waiting for the beginning of a classy theatrical performance than a sexually provocative dance choreographed around a...pole. The pole is black, more understated than the traditional bright brass affair Makoto had misremembered.

He's so lost in thought, checking uncomfortably around him for anyone he might possibly know from work (this place is halfway across the city from Makoto's office, but still. One can never be too sure that they haven't somehow overheard that he's gay, that he's got a boyfriend who's a stripper and for some perverse reason decided to check it out.)

There's a cheer as the MC announces _Marquise Diamond,_ and the curtain at the back of the stage parts, Kisumi poking his head out with a wide smile. He waves to the crowd as they cheer, winking, and when he finally makes eye contact with Makoto he blows him a kiss. Then he steps out, twitching the curtain closed behind his back.

Makoto was expecting to wince when Kisumi finally came out, had assumed he'd be in some 100 Yen Store Hallowe'en costume get-up the club provided. Instead he's in the same outfit he'd left the house in that morning; billowy yellow crop top that offers a tantalizing view of his abs, tiny, light-pink jean shorts that show his thighs off and compliment his ass. He looks just as comfortable in it now as when he'd put it on, telling Makoto he was heading out to the grocery store before his shift started and wishing him a good day at work.

He looks almost innocent in it, light and breezy, spotlight putting a halo of light in his hair. The only new additions to his outfit, Makoto notes, are the shoes. They're heels, cork wedges, tied on with cornflower-blue satin ribbons that twine around his calves. He's got a matching ribbon of the same colour, thick like a scarf, tied in a bow around his neck; he's beautiful, wrapped up in pastel like god's gift to mankind. The kind of gift Makoto would expect to find on the pages of a home-living catalogue geared toward middle-aged housewives.

And he _loves_ it, even more so than the crowd exploding in applause around him, whistling and hooting and shouting obscene words that have Makoto's blood boiling. He wants to tell them all to shut up, to stop screaming at his boyfriend to whip his dick out, but there's nothing he can do. He's trapped, listening to this. He breathes deep, finding Kisumi's eyes and fixating on them, trying to ignore the din.

When Kisumi smiles, his whole face lights up, and Makoto hopes the smile is for him. But the next second Kisumi sweeps his arms out to the audience, bowing humbly as they continue to shriek. "Wow, guys, what a warm welcome! I feel so loved."

Someone yells for him to _take it off,_ and instead of ignoring it, Kisumi turns to wink at the perpetrator.  "Patience, honey," he laughs. "Good things come to those who wait, you know." He comes to lean casually against the pole as he talks, the lights gradually fading purple in the background, main light focused on him. His eyes sweep out over the floor one more time, and Makoto gives a tiny wave, hoping to catch his attention.

It doesn't work, either Kisumi doesn't notice or he's too professional to acknowledge it (though that doesn't sound like him, in Makoto's opinion.) Then the music starts, slowly filling the room, starting soft and rolling in, gentle waves like the tide. Kisumi stands still at first, back against the pole, head tilted back, eyes closed. The pale light washes over his face, catching on the glitter on his eyelids, the sheen of lipgloss on his lips. Makoto doubts many of the people here notice it; it isn't heavy enough to be stage make-up, but Makoto's seen his face close-up enough times to have every single freckle memorized.

He moves his hips, shallow at first, nearly imperceptibly, until a woman's languid voice starts singing over the speakers. _Now you say I got a touch so good, so good-_ He moves his hands down his chest, over his abs, arching out his hips and sliding down the pole to a crouch, thighs spread wide open. Makoto's mouth goes completely dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, breath caught in his lungs. He should've ordered a glass of water.

As the music pumps louder, the singer reaching the chorus, Kisumi moves his hips, working his way back up the pole and swinging himself around it, expression sultry. _Let me show you how proud I am to be yours-_ He sways in perfect rhythm, finally turning to face the pole, grinding sensually against it before dropping again, pole between his thighs. The audience roars as he pulls himself up, wrapping his legs around the pole and finally showing off what he can do, muscles flexing gorgeously as he maneuvers himself.

The music reaches its crescendo, smooth and dark and velvety, and Kisumi flips himself upside down, biceps straining, shirt slipping down to reveal tightly clenched abs and pecs coated in a fine sheen of sweat. Once he's flipped himself back onto his feet, landing nimbly despite the precarious heels he's in, he slides both hands up his chest, undulating his hips as he pulls his shirt over his head. A burst of applause from the crowd, men whistling, women screaming. Kisumi smiles and winks, raking his fingers through his hair, head lolling back, exposing his neck- _Do my hair up real, real nice..._

Makoto blushes, pressing his hand to his mouth. He's seen him like that countless times, arched off the mattress, skin sweaty and flushed as he cries out Makoto's name again and again...but _this,_ this isn't what Makoto wants. His body's responding against his will out of sheer muscle memory; his head, on the other hand, feels uncomfortably sick at the thought of how many people get to see Kisumi showing off his vulnerability. They all want him, half the people in here would fuck him senseless right now, given the chance. It's an awful feeling. Kisumi's so talented, so charismatic and joyful, Makoto can hardly stand to listen to this degrading sexual harassment.

He watches, hands flat on the table in front of him as if he's worried about falling out of his chair, controlling his breathing. In, out, in, out. Don't listen. Ignore it. It's just a job, these people don't matter. Kisumi's used to it, he's responding to the crowd's leering, hands creeping down over his taut stomach muscles, twitching open the button of his shorts, inching out of them. He faces the audience head on, engaged with them, hearing their pleas and giving them exactly what they want. With each roll of his hips, each acrobatic trick on the pole, each tauntingly innocent expression tossed at the audience, Makoto's faint fantasies of Kisumi someday being fired and having to pursue a different profession drift further and further away. He's a star, working the pole as if he's molded to it.

At last he's bare save for his shoes, thong, and the ribbon still fastened around his neck. Beads of sweat trace the curves of his musculature, glistening in the stage light. He turns his back to the audience, all long, naked torso and slender waist, as the song reaches its sensual conclusion. _You say I give it to you hard, so bad, so bad-_ and he bends over, slow, tantalizing, back arched in to make his ass look even better, round and tight and framed by that pastel blue lace, his thighs pale and thick and damn, Makoto knows they feel as silky as they look, soft under his fingers, spreading open for him...

People are throwing money, mostly small bills, but some coins get thrown into the mix. Kisumi drops to knees, face a mask of pleasure as he shows his gratitude, crawling demurely to the edge of the stage. _'Cause I just wanna look good for you, good for you..._ He raises his ass first, head down, pressed to the floor, like a cat preparing to pounce, then pushes himself back to sit on his heels, stroking his thighs, over his barely concealed crotch, up his chest to fiddle momentarily with his nipples before grabbing the end of the ribbon still around his neck. He pulls, hips thrust out, lips parted and eyes glassy, absolutely submissive. _Trust me, I can take you there. Trust me, I, trust me, I..._

 

"Hey, babe," Kisumi says, flouncing out of the back exit. He's wearing baggy basketball shorts, a sweatshirt, and a cheerful grin that makes Makoto's chest ache. He's got his backpack slung over his shoulder, presumably stuffed with his stripping attire and tonight's earnings. He bounces into Makoto's arms and kisses him. Makoto hugs him tightly, smelling the sweat in his hair. "So? Did you like it?"

"I loved it," Makoto lies. It's as natural as smiling, as breathing, as being in love with Kisumi. "You were amazing." Well. That last bit isn't a lie.

Kisumi's face absolutely glows. He takes Makoto's hand as they walk, swinging it between them. "I picked that song for you," he says. "I'm so glad you came to see it." He gives Makoto a cheeky grin. "I always think about you when I dance."

Makoto studies his shoes as he walks, avoiding stepping in any puddles from the evening's rain. He squeezes Kisumi's hand a little tighter. "Really? Even with all those people?" _Keep your mouth shut,_ he chastises himself.

"Yep!" He brushes closer against Makoto's side, letting go of his hand to lay his arm across his shoulders. "Sometimes I get hard on stage thinking about you," he whispers.

Makoto's cock twitches at the thought, at Kisumi's gentle breathing right in his ear, at the memory of his performance. But it's not a pure feeling; it's streaked with the guilt of feeling so jealous, a touch of anger. Not at Kisumi, no. He's seldom ever angry at Kisumi. But he's definitely unsettled. "That seems a bit unprofessional."

"Nah, people go nuts for it." He laughs at his own lewd joke. "Get it?"

"...Yeah."

"Makoto," Kisumi says, voice low. Makoto braces himself; he recognizes that tone. "Are you okay?"

Makoto tries not to sigh, tries not to show his discomfort. "I'm fine." But he knows, he _knows_ Kisumi doesn't believe him for a second.

Kisumi peers at him sideways, bangs falling in his face. "When we get home...we need to talk."

Makoto hates those words. He doesn't want to talk about his feelings; he doesn't want Kisumi to hear how selfish he truly is. Given enough time, a few days maybe, he'll get over it. There's no sense in making a big deal over something so trivial.

 

 

 

"Kisumi, stop." Makoto sits tiredly at the kitchen table, rubbing his temples. "I'm tired, let's just go to bed."

"No," Kisumi replies, opening the cupboard they keep their coffee filters and beans in. "That's your way of making sure we don't finish talking about this."

"Please don't," Makoto repeats, desperately trying to keep his voice calm. It's upsetting when Kisumi isn't listening to him. "Don't make coffee."

"You don't have to have any," he says, scooping coffee into the filter in the machine and pressing the power button. After putting the stuff back on its shelf, he comes to sit across from Makoto. They're in the middle of an argument, but his face is relaxed and he's never raised his voice even once; he's open and honest, even when he's upset, but that's one of the things that makes it hard for Makoto. He's not scared of confronting Makoto and he's so insistent on sorting everything out, dragging out every painful detail. To Makoto, who prefers to deal with his insecurities privately, it's the emotional equivalent to being raked over the dying embers of a campfire. "Why didn't you tell me you didn't wanna go?" His eyes are so bright and clear, hard, like marquise diamonds.

Makoto sighs. "I...didn't want to hurt you. You wanted me there."

Kisumi scrubs his face, showing frustration for the first time. "Why do you always do that? If I knew it'd make you that upset I never would've asked!"

"It's not your fault," Makoto assures him. "Don't blame yourself. You didn't know." It's meant to diffuse the situation, but it only adds kindling to those hot coals.

"Of course I didn't, because you didn't tell me. You _never_ tell me how you're feeling; I have to play freaking guessing games with you every day and I'm tired of it."

His voice rings cold in Makoto's ears. "You...you're tired? Of it?"

Kisumi's face softens instantly and he reaches out to stroke the back of Makoto's hand. "Not like that." He breathes deep, closing his eyes. There's still plenty of glitter clinging to his lashes. "I'm tired of not knowing what's really going on with you. It scares me sometimes, the way you hide everything."

Makoto examines the lacquer on their kitchen table, hands pressed flat so they won't start shaking. "I don't hide..."

"Yes, you do. I watch you sometimes when you think I'm not looking. Makoto, it's _scary_ how sad you get sometimes; the look on your face..." His voice sounds thick.

"I don't mean to make you sad." _I'll hide it better._

Kisumi's standing over him the next moment, tilting his chin up, gentle, though his fingers are strong enough that Makoto can't look away without exerting a significant amount of force. He picks up Makoto's free hand, lacing their fingers together. "Don't shy away from me. I want to know about it when you're sad, or mad, or hungry, or gassy-"

"I'm not telling you when I'm _gassy,_ " Makoto protests, a strangled laugh escaping his lungs despite how down his mood is.

 Kisumi presses his lips to Makoto's, full and chaste. "The other ones, then." He winks, letting go to check on the progress of the coffee, the aroma of which now fills the entire apartment with its earthy richness. He gets out two mugs.

"I said I don't want any," Makoto mumbles. It falls on deaf ears.

Kisumi prepares Makoto's the way he likes it, double cream and sugar and a hint of hot chocolate mix stirred in. "At least warm up your hands with it." He sits, blowing on his own cup. He takes his black with a dash of sugar, which Makoto has never understood. "And I already know you'll be gassy later because of the coffee cream, so you don't even need to tell-"

"Heyyy!" It's true; the lactose free creamer just doesn't taste the same. The cream may not sit well with him, but it's worth it for the far superior flavour.

"-but the other stuff," Kisumi continues over Makoto's whine, "you should tell me about."

"I..." He steels himself, taking a quick sip. It's still too hot, scalding his mouth. "I hate how sad you get. When I tell you things. I never want to be the reason your smile's gone."

Kisumi's quiet for a moment, considering. Makoto can't help but think how pretty he is when he's making such a serious face. "You can't...that's not how it works," he finally says. "I don't want you living your entire life in fear of occasionally making me sad."

"But-"

"No buts! Have you ever heard of setting yourself on fire to keep others warm? Because that is absolutely on your product description. Soon you'll be nothing but a pile of ashes."

Makoto's heart beats faster, blood singing in his ears. "I like making other people happy." _Why can't you understand that?_

"Yeah, but you take it too far, babe." Despite the harsh truths that Kisumi's laying out, his voice is soft, caressing. Full of love and concern. "You need to be happy, too."

 _But that's so selfish,_ he wants to argue, but he knows it won't work. Kisumi's piercing gaze sees right through him.

"Listen to me. I want to have an adult conversation with you about what happened tonight, but I can't if you aren't gonna be honest with me about your feelings. I need you to be all here with me for this to work. Get it?"

"I...yeah." _I'm trying._

"It's like you think I can't handle you being upset with me," Kisumi goes on. "I can, sweetie. I promise. I'm tougher than I look."

Makoto gives a tiny smile. "You do look pretty tough already." He reaches out, brushing his thumb over Kisumi's cheek. "With all that glitter on your face."

Kisumi covers his hand with his own, tilting his head into Makoto's touch. "I can handle my job, and I can handle anything you have to say about it. I wanna talk this out. Please. I know it's hard for you."

In that moment, Makoto confirms what he's been highly suspicious of for a few months now. He does indeed have the best boyfriend in the world. Nobody else has ever had the patience and understanding to coax Makoto out of his shell like this; it isn't the first discussion of this nature that they've had, and it likely won't be the last. "I...felt..."

Kisumi waits for him to finish, alert and leaning forward in his seat. Makoto's got his full attention, and suddenly it feels as though _he's_ under a spotlight. But he's not performing for a hostile crowd; no, he's talking to Kisumi. Who loves him.

"I don't like how they treat you," he mutters. "I hate listening to it. You're so talented; I want to watch you, I do, I wanna be okay with your job, but when I'm there...Kisumi, I wanted to _hurt_ somebody."

Kisumi rubs little circles on his knuckles with his thumb, and Makoto senses it's an invitation to go on.

"I scare myself when I feel like that. I seriously wanted to punch anyone who was treating you like, like a sex toy- I wanted to storm up there and grab you and, and-"

"And what?" Kisumi's eyes glitter; he's barely breathing as he listens.

"I wanted to show them that you're _mine,_ " he whispers. "But you're not. You're...you're _yours,_ and I have no right to feel so possessive and jealous like that." He presses his free hand to the back of his eyes, fending off the heat pricking the corners of his eyes. "It scares me so much when that happens. I don't feel like myself and I'm afraid of hurting you."

"Makoto," Kisumi breathes, sliding out of his chair. He kneels on the floor, hands on either side of Makoto's face. He's grinning, but there's something urgent in his voice. "I never- I never knew you felt like that. It makes so much sense, babe, I'm sorry. I won't ask you to come again." He's so straightforward, so intense. Makoto blushes, face hot where his hands are. "But you know..."

"What?" His voice only shakes a little.

"I think it's hot."

Makoto blinks. "H-How?"

"I dunno," Kisumi replies, his cheeks turning as pink as Makoto's feel. "The idea of you wanting to come up on stage and show everyone that I'm yours?" He makes a noise, deep in the back of his throat, just a hint of a moan, and it's got Makoto's curiosity fully piqued. "What would you have done to me?"

Makoto steadies himself, mind reeling. "I...wanted to..." The words stick in his mouth.

"Would you show me?"

"I'm scared I might...I mean, I..."

Kisumi takes his hand, squeezing it hard. "I want this. I want you to show me every side of you; tell me what you want. I'll do anything for you."

Makoto stares at him, on the precipice of agreeing to this, but afraid of doing so. It's so much easier to remain in stasis.

"We'll use a safeword," Kisumi suggests. He's still kneeling on the floor, between Makoto's knees, hands discretely sliding over his thighs. "If I say it, you stop. Does that work?"

Makoto closes his eyes, Kisumi's hands feeling like magic, turning his previous angsty hard-on into something that actually feels special. "Okay. I'm nervous."

"That's okay, baby," Kisumi says. "We'll take it slow. Hey, d'you want me to put my getup back on, or...?"

Makoto can still visualize him in those shorts, all sexy and tight, a reminder of the shitty evening he's about to leave far behind. "Maybe the underwear," he says.

"Never took  'em off," Kisumi replies.

Makoto groans softly, hoisting Kisumi up as he stands. Then he gathers all his strength and scoops Kisumi into his arms bride-style; Kisumi's not a small man, and it's not easy, but he's pretty thin and Makoto still has a lot of upper body strength to him. He barely makes it to the bedroom before his arms give out, though.

Kisumi's flushing hard, staring at Makoto with a certain degree of wonder as he strips his shirt. It's making him self-conscious.

"Why do you keep staring at me?"

"Because you have the sexiest look on your face right now. Like you literally want to eat me."

Makoto smiles. "That's because I do." He clears his throat. "What's our safeword?"

"...Haruka Nanase."

"I'm not calling out my friend's name during sex!"

"Oh, c'mon," Kisumi laughs. " It's supposed to be something unsexy."

"That was the best you could come up with?"

Kisumi scratches his nose, thinking. His shorts sit low on his hips, some lace trim showing under the band, and it's driving Makoto half crazy. "You're right, he's actually kind of pretty. Especially when he gets all-"

"Kisumi!"

"Okay, okay. How about Iwatobi?"

Makoto nods, just wanting to agree to something and get on to the next step. "If you say Iwatobi, I'll stop right away."

Kisumi gives him a thumbs up.

"Then _please,_ take off those shorts and, um, get over here." He kneels at the foot of their bed, fully clothed, watching as Kisumi discards his clothes and crawls onto the bed. He's got an obvious erection under his panties, and close-up Makoto can see how sheer they are; Kisumi's red and rigid already. "Does dancing really...is this from...?"

"It's from thinking about you watching me," Kisumi explains with a smile, kneeling with his legs open so Makoto can get a good look. Makoto leans closer to kiss him, hard and fierce, using his frustration from the evening as fuel. His hand finds the back of Kisumi's neck, using his hair to hold his head still. Kisumi moans through parted lips, and Makoto shoves his tongue in, dominating Kisumi's mouth. Kisumi gasps, hands on Makoto's chest. Makoto kisses down his jawline, nipping his neck, nose buried in his hair. Sweat, the synthetic scent of makeup, that dingy tang that comes from being in a club with unwashed people all night. Other people's cologne. He pulls away.

"What's wrong?" Kisumi asks, gently rubbing Makoto's shoulders. He's still wearing that gentle, genuine smile that makes Makoto's heart thump.

"It's...could you..." He doesn't want to hurt Kisumi's feelings or ruin the mood. "Ah, never mind."

Kisumi cups Makoto's cheeks, drawing his face forward until their noses are almost touching, squeezing him just on the wrong side of gentle. "Tell. Me."

"D'you think you could shower?" Makoto squeaks.

"Sure thing, stud," Kisumi singsongs, pecking Makoto's lips before hopping off of the bed. He stops and turns on his way out the door. "I'll be quick." He doesn't seem put out in the least, which has Makoto sighing in relief as he leans against the headboard.

Kisumi does make it quicker than usual, though it takes about fifteen minutes. He plays Bejewelled on his phone to calm his nerves, listening to Kisumi's off-key singing belting from the bathroom, nothing loud enough to drown it out- not even the blow dryer. Makoto can smell him as soon as he enters the room; grapefruit and freshness and _Kisumi._ So much better. And the make-up's washed off his face, too, for the most part- but the traces of waterproof eyeliner are fine, they make his eyes appear more dark and sultry than usual. It's sexy.  

"Oohh, you put on your glasses," Kisumi observes, looking over his shoulder while he rummages through the closet. "I love those things."

"I couldn't see the screen." Makoto flushes, remembering the last time he wore them in bed.

Kisumi titters. "Looks like you're thinking about something nice... _daddy._ "

"Please don't," Makoto begs, taking them off. He's still not sure how to feel about that night. Kisumi in a schoolgirl outfit, well, who wouldn't get turned on by that? But what really got him there was the dirty talk, Kisumi calling him daddy and begging to be spanked, all with such a sincere voice, like he wasn't even play acting. And Makoto had wanted to, oh god had he ever wanted to, but something kept him from acquiescing. Because those feelings and desires bubbling up from deep inside were terrifying; they weren't how people were supposed to think. People shouldn't behave that way, shouldn't get painfully hard at the idea of their boyfriends calling them _daddy._ That's for dirty movies too cheesy to be taken seriously. In the end, Kisumi had given him a world-class blowjob (with his hair pulled into two little pigtails) and...

"Babe? You listening?" Kisumi shakes him gently back into reality. "Please put them back on, they're so sexy." He bites his bottom lip. "I promise I won't say it."

Makoto nods, putting them back on.

"Get comfy," Kisumi says, taking something off of a hanger and hiding it behind his back before Makoto can see it. "I'll be right back." He disappears back into the en-suite, and this time Makoto waits patiently with his hands clasped over his stomach. A glance in the big mirror over the dresser across from the bed has him adjusting his potion; give him a newspaper and he really would look like a dad, lazing in bed on a Sunday morning. He's only twenty-four, but those glasses add about ten years. He sighs heavily. _Enough with the daddy thing. Just stop._

When Kisumi reappears, he's wearing one of Makoto's button-down cable knit sweaters. Kisumi's shoulders are slender where Makoto's are broad, making the garment look slightly saggy on him, falling down over his hands. It's not long enough to cover his hips, though, revealing the mint green thong he's wearing now.

"That's quite the outfit," Makoto says, eyes roving over Kisumi's long, pale legs.

Kisumi hops into bed, crawling up to straddle Makoto's hips and kiss him. "I thought you'd like it if I smelled more like you." Makoto nuzzles his neck; he smells like a mix of body wash and Makoto's favourite laundry detergent, breath minty, his hair soft after being washed and dried. Finally Kisumi chuckles. "You gonna smell me all night, or are you gonna...?" He roll his hips suggestively, hard against Makoto's crotch.

"I can do both," Makoto replies calmly.

Kisumi's eyes glint. "There it is," he whispers, borderline reverence in his voice. He wraps his arms around Makoto's neck and kisses him; desperate, needy kisses that make him heat up from the inside out. And Makoto's just as desperate as he is, fire searing through his veins, barely managing to keep himself civil. He grunts, leaning forward to take off his shirt, and Kisumi slides down to run his hands over Makoto's stomach and chest, pausing to lay a gentle kiss on one pec.

Makoto tosses the shirt aside, helping Kisumi out of his sweater. Once the buttons are undone, he finds that there's more to the outfit than he thought. Kisumi's smile turns sly, an edge of faux innocence to it as Makoto drags the sweater down his shoulders and off his arms, practically salivating at the view.

He's wearing a sea foam green babydoll négligée (Makoto takes it as a mark of his boyfriend's profession that he even knows what these things are called) that's completely sheer save for the lace on the bra cups. The colours, the fit, the way Kisumi looks so damn natural in this kind of thing- he's gorgeous; he belongs on the cover of Vanity Fair. He slides his hands up Kisumi's thighs, thumbing the band of his panties. "Let me eat you out. Please."

Kisumi looks down at him through those impossibly thick lashes, and Makoto sees his throat bob as he swallows. This is one of the few activities Kisumi doesn't really like; he's not a fan of having anything in his ass other than Makoto's condom-sheathed cock. He thinks it's dirty, he always has, no matter how many times Makoto assures him that he thinks it's sexy rather than gross. "Okay," he nods, getting off of Makoto's lap.

"Remember the safeword," Makoto reminds him, anxiety replaced by a sudden thrum of excitement.

"Got it," Kisumi says, slightly less sparkle in his voice. Normally Makoto would hear it and insist they stop, but...he wants it, he wants to lick Kisumi until he's melting in his touch, wants to make up for the discomfort he put up with this evening. Every time he feels his convictions faltering, he thinks of the club; Kisumi acting so demure on stage, in front of all those strangers, giving them a taste of what should be reserved for Makoto alone.

"Face the mirror," he whispers, kissing Kisumi's shoulder as he does so. Kisumi bends forward, face in the comforter, and arches his ass up. Makoto's still seated against the headboard, Kisumi straddling his legs, clinging tightly to them. Makoto runs his hands over the backs of his thighs, bending down to trail soft kisses along his skin; waxed perfectly smooth for work, as always. He gropes Kisumi gently through the fabric, teasing the outline of his erection, the damp spot at the front, and Kisumi purrs low in the back of his throat.

Makoto's patient, touching and massaging and kissing him until he's somewhat relaxed, then hooking his fingers under the band of the thong and carefully peeling them down around Kisumi's thighs, which tremble slightly as he does so. His ass is all tight muscle from working the pole so hard every night, round and full and firm under Makoto's hands. He licks cautiously at first, slicking up Kisumi's hole with saliva, feeling him twitch. "Relax," he mumbles, soothingly grazing Kisumi's inner thighs with his palms before bringing them up to spread his ass open more. He leans in deeper, prodding his tongue in, and Kisumi shivers, gasping.

Makoto increases the pressure of his grip, holding Kisumi still as he works him with his tongue. In, out, taking time to lick the sensitive skin below his hole. Soon enough, Kisumi starts responding, shaking and gasping with each lick. He spreads his thighs as far open as he can despite the thong still around them, keeping them shackled. Makoto moves one hand down to fondle his balls, stroking his cock, using a finger to spread the moisture at his tip.

"Oh god, Makoto," Kisumi whimpers, voice thick with lust. He reaches a hand back to massage the front of Makoto's pants. "Ah, you're so hard, I'm so hard, c'mon baby, _please._ "

Makoto pulls away with a smile, glasses crooked. He nudges them back up with his thumb, studying Kisumi's reflection in the mirror. He's got one cheek pressed against the bed, eyes half-closed, face heated darker than his hair. Without a word, Makoto slips two fingers into his mouth, sucking them, aware that Kisumi can also see _him_ through the mirror.

He cocks his head to the side, enjoying the view for a moment, then presses his fingers into Kisumi's ass. They go in slow, Kisumi shivering, his moans reverberating down Makoto's spine and coiling tight in his hips.

He scissors his fingers, eliciting more ragged sighs from Kisumi's lips. He pushes his ass back into Makoto's fingers, trying to brush the spot Makoto's been intentionally avoiding. He stops, panting, as Makoto draws his fingers out. "Hahhh," he groans, looking back with an amused smile and rosy cheeks. "I love playing games." He chews his lip, undulating his hips suggestively. "Play with me."

"Hmm," Makoto hums, an idea sparking in his mind. "You asked for it." He reaches for the top drawer in the bedside table, where he keeps his crossword puzzles and pens and the case for his glasses. At the very back he finds what he's looking for- a small remote controlled vibrator and a tube of lubricant. He squirts lube into his hands, warming it before slicking up the vibrator. He presses a kiss to Kisumi's ass, pushing fingers in to lubricate his hole, and then puts in the vibrator, stuffing it in with his fingers until Kisumi gasps, indicating he's hit the right spot. The vibrator's completely disappeared, only the cord attaching it to the remote trailing out. "Kisumi?"

"Yeah?" His voice is only a touch breathless.

"Turn around, straddle me like you were before. Make sure this doesn't fall out."

"Sure thing," Kisumi says, clenching his ass before doing as instructed. He has to hitch the panties up a little further in order to get his legs over Makoto's, and it bites deliciously into his upper thighs. His cock is out, thick and flushed red, but it's the devious expression on his face that really gets to Makoto. He looks absolutely ravenous, like he's never encountered such pleasure before and he never intends to let it go, eyes hooded, pupils blown wide, tongue trailing over his lower lip. "How's the view?"

"Delectable, " Makoto says truthfully, turning the vibrator on to its lowest setting. Kisumi jolts, squeezing his thighs together, voice descending into a ragged pant. "Don't touch yourself," Makoto whispers, moving Kisumi's hands to his thighs. Kisumi grips tightly onto himself, kneeling over Makoto, no part of them actually _touching_ each other.

Kisumi's starting to sweat as Makoto increases the speed on the vibrator, his thighs and abs slick with moisture. "Don't you want any help with _that,_ " Kisumi asks, eyeing the bulge in the front of Makoto's pants.

"Oh, no," Makoto assures him, smiling brightly. "I can handle it myself, like I was tempted to do at the club." Kisumi's eyes widen  he undoes his belt, inching his pants and boxers down enough to let his erect cock spring free. His fingers still have lube on them, so the first few strokes are smooth and easy. He watches Kisumi's face as he touches himself, his expression causing him to grow even harder.

"You really wanted to jack off there?"

"You looked so good on stage," Makoto tells him, thumbing his tip and shuddering. "The way you move...I never imagined you could do some of those things." He turns the dial up on the vibrator.

Kisumi whimpers, hips stuttering, digging his nails into his own thighs. "Oh, _frick,_ Makoto, hahh," he pants, cock twitching, beads of precome leaking out. "I'm way bendier than...than you think." He's obviously struggling to keep his thoughts in order, thrusting his hips as though it'll help him get more friction. "Please, I'm so ready for you. Use me, put your cock in. I want it so bad."

"But I _am_ using you, love," Makoto explains. "But if you really want it..." He turns the vibrator off abruptly, making Kisumi groan, his legs going limp. Makoto recalls the way he'd crawled forward on stage, head down, expression light and curious like a cat in heat. He pulls Kisumi down by his arm, down down, running his hands through his hair and gripping the back of his head. With his other hand he holds his cock, right in front of Kisumi's face. "Suck." Saying it gets his adrenaline pumping, heart racing with the thrill of saying something he'd normally keep locked up deep inside.

Kisumi's eyes widen momentarily, then he smirks. "I thought you'd never let me touch you," he says, taking Makoto in his hand, eyeing his cock like it's his favourite kind of ice cream on a hot summer day.

"M-Mouth only," Makoto insists shakily, still holding himself in the right position. Kisumi beams at him, nodding, and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear before kissing Makoto's tip, precome glistening on his lips. He licks Makoto's head, tonguing the sensitive underside, eyes fixed on Makoto through his lashes. Makoto quivers, heat pooling in his belly as Kisumi takes him in his mouth, cheeks hollowed as he sucks, breathing measuredly through his nose. He bobs his head forward, taking Makoto into the back of his throat, then pulls back slowly, mouth pursed in a tight circle, before jerking forward again.

Even with his nose buried in Makoto's pubic hair, he somehow manages to look like some sort of celestial fairy king, hair falling over his brow, eyes twinkling with mirth. He knows exactly what to do to get Makoto there faster, and he works him relentlessly, until Makoto's twitching and hot, right on the edge of orgasm.

Makoto tugs lightly on Kisumi's hair to get him off, then takes his cock in his hand and pumps, aiming for Kisumi's face. "Can I?"

Kisumi gives a satisfied, feline smirk. "Go ahead, baby." He parts his mouth, just enough to lick his lips.

And Makoto strokes himself, balls tightening and hips shaking as he finally comes, striping Kisumi's face with sticky ropes of jizz. Kisumi's breathing hard by the time it's over, come decorating his face and hair, eyes glassy and dark.

Makoto stops to catch his breath, Kisumi crawling forward to kiss him. He tastes like come and sweat and toothpaste, whining needily into Makoto's mouth as he twines their tongues together. Then he slides his hands down Makoto's chest, kissing a trail down his jaw and collarbone, over his pecs, where he pauses and stares down at Makoto's softening dick. "Oh my," he purrs. "What a shame, look how small it's gone."

"Give me a few minutes," Makoto says, clicking the on button on the remote still in his hand. Kisumi's not expecting it; he _writhes,_ crying out with a strangled whimper. "Sit back on your heels," Makoto directs him.

He does it, legs spread open so Makoto can see his cock, which is freely leaking onto the comforter. He turns the dial up to its second highest setting, watching Kisumi come absolutely undone, raking his hands through his hair, one hand sliding up his abs under the negligee to fondle his nipple. "Ooohhhh my god," he pants. "Oh it feels so good."

Now he's pinching both nipples at the same time, rolling them between his fingers, breathing hard, and Makoto can tell by the state of his face that he's about to come. He turns the vibrator down and Kisumi gasps, rolling his hips. "Makoto, _please,_ " he whines. "Please touch me."

"Don't want to," Makoto whispers. Then, after a moment of thought, "Remember the safeword."

"I remember it," Kisumi gasps, cock twitching, hanging heavy and hard between his legs. "I'm good." He doesn't move his hands to stroke himself. "More, more Makoto, turn it up, I need to c-come-"

"You're so pretty when you beg," Makoto says, leaning forward to spread Kisumi's knees further apart. He keeps him trapped in his grip, feeling the corded muscles of his thighs tense up when he turns the vibrator to the highest setting.

Kisumi whimpers loudly, hands leaving his chest to hang on tightly to Makoto's wrists. He hunches forward, abs tightening, entire frame shuddering. "S-So close," he groans, helplessly bucking his hips. "I'm gonna, god Mako I'm gonna c-come!"

He seems almost terrified, nails digging into Makoto's forearms as a tremor starts in his thighs, his cock quivering and spurting hot, wet streaks all over Makoto's belly. Kisumi's face screws up tightly, tears glistening on his lashes, as the strength of his orgasm wracks through him. When he finally finishes he  lets out a ragged gasp, desperately sucking air into his lungs. He collapses into Makoto's arms, face hot, bangs sweaty. Makoto pets his hair, mindful of the come that's drying in it.

"That was so good," Kisumi murmurs, weakly adjusting his position. "Mmm, you're hard again."

"How could I not be?" He tugs lightly on a strand of Kisumi's hair, but Kisumi's too exhausted to react. "You should sleep."

"No, no, I'm not tired," he says, eyes closed, arms gone limp. "Lemme take care of you."

Makoto chuckles. "You liar..." His cock throbs just looking at Kisumi's complacent face. "Would it be okay if I...if I fuck you? You don't even have to move. If you don't want to it's fine; I really just want to look at-"

"Do whatever you want with me," Kisumi replies. "I'm yours. Only yours."

Heartbeat singing in his ears, Makoto bends down to kiss Kisumi's lips. "I'll be gentle."

"No." Kisumi touches Makoto's face, hand shaking slightly. "I want it to hurt. I like it when you're rough with me. Please, please take me, Makoto. Take everything you want, I wanna know how you like it." He props himself up on an elbow, surveying Makoto with those perceptive eyes. "I remember the safeword."

Makoto crushes his lips to Kisumi's, kissing him hard, delving his tongue into Kisumi's mouth, absorbing every lewd whimper and muted gasp for breath. He slides out from under Kisumi, too hurried to pull his pants all the way off. He clasps Kisumi's waist and pulls his hips up into the air, spreading his legs open, and pulls the vibrator out with a slick pop and a groan from Kisumi. "I wanna go raw."

Kisumi looks back at him, face smushed into Makoto's pillow, eyes dazed. "Okay."

Instead of second-guessing the moment, wondering if Kisumi really wants this or if he's just doing it to please his boyfriend, Makoto lines up his cock, hoping the lube remaining from the vibrator will be enough. He presses in, tightly gripping Kisumi's hips as he buries himself. Once he's fully flush with Kisumi's ass, he bends forward, placing one hand down by Kisumi's shoulder. Kisumi's bent at an impossible angle, ass high in the air, spine arched like a stretching cat, staring up at Makoto through one hooded eye.

He gasps and groans, lacking the strength to move as Makoto slowly draws back, pounding hard back into him. Each thrust elicits a loud squelch and a strangled grunt from Kisumi; he doesn't even try to hold his voice back, completely unashamed. Makoto increases his speed, reaching around to stroke Kisumi's neglected cock in time to the rocking of his hips.

He pushes hard, fast, loving the pressure of Kisumi clenching down on him, biting and sucking at every bit of Kisumi's back he can reach beneath the lingerie, loving the salty taste of skin beneath his teeth. Kisumi comes before he does, muscles tensing, weakly twining his fingers around Makoto's with the hand that isn't clutching his pillow. And Makoto pulls back out of his grip, straightening his back, using his hand to spread Kisumi's ass and fucking into him at a reckless pace, electricity surging down his spine with every noise Kisumi makes.

"Ma- ko- _to-_ " he grunts, pitiful, weak. "Oh god, _please, please..._ "

Makoto thrusts in one, two, three times, rocking Kisumi so hard that the bed creaks, gasping as his toes go numb, all senses focused on the tight knot growing in his belly. It swells and snaps, Makoto panting as he comes, pulling out halfway through to stroke himself. Strings of come paint Kisumi's ass and thighs, more of it dripping from his hole as he spasms and clenches.

For several minutes the room is silent, save for the sound of their labored breathing. Makoto sits back on his heels, wiping the sweat from his face, watching as Kisumi slowly sinks down onto the mattress. He leans over and rubs Kisumi's back. "Okay?"

"Mmm," Kisumi responds, eyes fluttering open. "Amazing."

Makoto bends down to kiss him. "You need a shower."

"Too tired," Kisumi replies, and Makoto definitely believes him.

"I'll be right back," he says, getting off the bed and heading for the bathroom. He brings a warm washcloth, a dry towel, and a glass of cold water back with him. He starts by wiping the come off Kisumi's thighs and ass, and he knows Kisumi's still awake by the way he lets out a satisfied hum.

"You take such good care of me," Kisumi says, putty in Makoto's hands as he makes him flip over so he can clean his chest and face. He takes the glass of water Makoto presses into his hand, a little dribbling out the corner of his mouth as he drinks it with shaking hands. He downs the whole thing and pulls his lips off the cup with a cute gasp.

Makoto smiles, brushing damp hair out of Kisumi's eyes. "You're the one taking care of _me._ Thank you for tonight. For letting me do all this."

Kisumi sits up, wrapping his arms around Makoto's neck. "I'd let you do anything you want. And don't think I didn't like it."

Makoto strokes his back and Kisumi twitches, sucking in air. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it just-" Kisumi turns to examine his back in the mirror, unhooking the straps of his top to take it off. He drops it, revealing a series of dark bruises on his back. He gasps, running a finger lightly over one, and Makoto's _horrified._ He hadn't even noticed, hadn't even realized how hard he'd been biting, and now he'd hurt Kisumi-

"Wow," Kisumi whistles. "Gonna have to get creative to cover these up for my shift tomorrow."

"I'm so, _so_ sorry," Makoto starts, but Kisumi holds a finger to his lips, cutting him off.

"It's okay, babe." And his smile is so bright that Makoto can't help but believe him. Kisumi looks in the mirror again, pressing down on a bruise and shivering. "It's so freaking hot when you get aggressive."

"I still wish...I mean..." Makoto winces. "It looks so painful."

"I don't mind," Kisumi yawns. "But um..." He bats his lashes. "I wouldn't mind if you wanted to give me a massage. God, I dunno if I didn't stretch good enough before work or what, but my thighs are killing me."

"Anything you want," Makoto nods, pulling Kisumi into a soft, chaste kiss. "You deserve it."

Kisumi's return smile could absolutely blind a man. "Because I'm a marquise diamond," he purrs.

"Yes, you are," Makoto breathes. "Gorgeous and in high demand."

"And hard."

Makoto snorts. "You can't possibly be after all that."

"You might be surprised," Kisumi says, pulling Makoto down onto the mattress with him.

**Author's Note:**

> [rosaveritas.tumblr.com](http://rosaveritas.tumblr.com) or [@Maguro_hime (twitter)](https://twitter.com/maguro_hime)


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